


The ShadowBorn

by Wilson



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, BAMF Clary Fray, Clary Fray & Alec Lightwood Friendship, Drama & Romance, F/M, Human!Simon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malec, Other, Protective Clary Fray, Protective Jace Wayland, Valentine is still evil, at least for a while, clace, eventually...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-03-30 05:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13943205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilson/pseuds/Wilson
Summary: The deep, gargling hiss echoed over the line even over Simon’s suddenly harsh breathing. It made Clary’s blood chill in her veins. “Simon? Simon, run.”--In which Magnus is tired of being ignored, Jocelyn is still kidnapped, and Clary meets the New York Shadowhunters a few years later than in the books... but this time she is a little more than just an oblivious Nephilim. Endgame cannon pairings.





	1. Tomato of Segregation

**Author's Note:**

> Short to medium chapters. Eventually will probably be at least thirty-forty chapters. I am editing this as I go along, so you may notice minor re-wording, editing, etc. I do basically know what is going to happen, so nothing too crazy should pop up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am editing this as I go along. Let me know if you’d be interested in proofreading/betaing.

**CH 1**

 

“So you’re telling me you _don’t_ think _‘Tomato of Segregation_ ’ would make an awesome band name? Because I don’t think I believe you.”

 

Standing at her tiny sink with toothbrush in hand, Clary Fray gave an exaggerated groan and rubbed her free palm over her eyes for dramatic effect… in spite of the fact that her one-man audience couldn’t actually _see_ her. On the dresser, less than five feet away in her cramped efficiency apartment, the phone was propped up against the box that held her drawing pencils, the circular white speaker icon glowing in the evening light.

 

Ignoring Clary’s theatrics, Simon’s voice continued to ramble out of the glass rectangle, “You know what? I’m not so sure I can trust your taste in names anymore, Fray. I _still_ can’t believe you didn’t like _Geriatric Design_ … I thought that one was pretty catchy.”

 

“And _I_ think you were lying about your mom never dropping you on your head when you were a baby.” Clary replied fondly, adding toothpaste to her wet toothbrush. “You’re crazy, Lewis.”

 

“ _You_ love me, Fray. What does that say about you?” Simon responded without missing a beat.

“Mm’ a vic’hum of cur’um’stansh” Clary spoke around a mouthful of minty foam, laughing when her best friend immediately launched into a litany of exaggerated criticism of her for being incomprehensible.

 

If felt so good to be able to talk with Simon like this. To be able to throw around the “L word” so casually… there was a time she had thought this might disappear forever.

 

“ _That's the danger of dating your best friend…”_ That had been the ever-present fear hovering like a miasma over the weeks after graduation. Holding college degrees in wildly different fields, neither knowing what they were going to _use_ their new knowledge for, the pair of them were both searching for who they were going to be as _adults_ . That searching had lead them to each other, in a way that Clary hadn’t seriously considered since she’d been ten years old. It turned out, Simon  had been harboring far more depth of feeling and patience than she’d ever credited him with before. She had worried back then that they were going to prove the commonly accepted axiom that men and women couldn’t _just_ be friends: They were more, or they were nothing.

 

As it had turned out, after several months of sweet kisses and fun dates, the pair of them weren’t more _or_ nothing… they just were. Kissing Simon was fun, and warm and… fun. Like kissing her best friend. Which, she supposed, made perfect sense. After a while even Simon was willing to admit that not all love was the same. Clary and Simon were something entirely onto themselves…  sometimes how she got so lucky as to be able to keep him. She knew he had wanted there to be more.

 

A little worm of guilt, a familiar friend since their non-break up break up, made itself known in her gut.

 

“Earth to Clary… come innnnn Clary…” Simon’s voice brought abruptly her back to reality, green eyes snapping away from their unfocused stare at the crack stretching like a spiderweb away from the corner of her ceiling. “Sorry, I’m listening.”

Clary rinsed and put her toothbrush back about the time Simon began lamenting the manners of “ _kids these days_ ” and took the two steps from her kitchen/bathroom to her bedroom/living area. Letting her damp red hair out of its bun and flopping on the bed, she teased him back and the two easily fell into yet more good-natured banter.

 

They chatted about questionable musical gigs and terrible band names and whatever other random things popped up while Clary listened to the background noise of Simon finishing up at work. His first real accounting job out of college was going well by all reports, but he tended to work 24/7 during tax season, trying to keep up with the workload associated with being the lowest man on the proverbial totem pole. He had made a habit recently of calling Clary late at night and using idle chatter to pass the time while he waited for reports to run and crunched numbers for various clients. Privately, though he never complained seriously about his work, she suspected that these conversations were his way of mentally escaping from the life that paid the bills, but was far from what he really wanted.

 

Her heart broke for him, the artist in her wishing he could be totally free to explore his creative aspirations as he so chose…

 

Sickly yellow lights cut through the thin curtains on her only window. They cast their anemic glow on the wall above her kitchen sink-- the only sink in her space-- highlighting the thin cracks in the plaster she’d been idly staring at earlier. It was an apt reminder that Simon wasn’t jumping with both feet into his music for more than just his inability to come up with a band name:  they called them _starving artists_ for a reason.

Simon’s more responsible life choices left him bored and sometimes frustrated, but her more _eclectic_ path has its own challenges, that was for sure.

 

“Always daydreaming, these lazy artists.” Simon scolded playfully. She head the familiar sound of keys jangling and a door shutting in the static and she automatically checked the clock on her microwave-- _11:38 PM_ glowed green back at her. “Can’t even pay attention to one simple conversation for--” she hear his voice get a bit fainter as he pulled the phone away from his face, checking the length of the call. “Two hours and fifty-three _measly_ minutes. That’s pretty sad, Fray.”

 

Clary laughed, reaching over the sketchbooks and mugs piled beside her bed to turn off the lamp. “Yeah, yeah, can’t hold a thought in my head unless it’s about color palettes or some other useless artsy thing.”

 

She heard the thump of a door or a gate opening, and then Simon’s standard complaint about the cold on a blustery New Work night. The wind was loud in the speaker for a moment before Simon turned up his collar and muffled the static.

 

She asked him about his day and he asked about her mom. She heard cars passing and horns honking over his side of the phone, before he turned down a side street and they faded into the distance. They had circled back around to talk about Simon’s caffeine-addicted supervisor (‘ _Seriously, who needs someone to bring them coffee seven times a day!?’_ ) when he abruptly fell silent.

 

“Hey… you ok?” Clary asked, yawning. It was nearly 12:00 by now, he had to be nearing home by now. He occupied a larger efficiency apartment in a complex not too far from her own. The area was a little run-down but trendy, and largely populated by recent grads and the wealthier kids attending university and renting apartments on mom and dad’s dime.

 

“Yeah…” something was off  in Simon’s voice, and it made Clary sit up, the lateness of the hour temporarily forgotten. “Simon, What’s wrong?’

 

“Maybe nothing-- probably nothing.” His voice sounded farther away now, like he was holding the phone away from his ear. She imagined him peering around in the dark. “I just... I could have sworn I saw a person ahead of me but… there’s no way someone could move that fast.” He offered a shaky laugh.

 

Clary wanted to be comforting, she wanted to tell him it was probably nothing. Instead, she asked, as casually as possible, “Where are you, exactly?” When he responded with the nearest crossroads, she grabbed her jacket and her keys on autopilot.

 

“I’m coming to get you. Don’t hang up.” It could be nothing… was probably nothing. Clary just couldn’t turn off them little trill of alarm that was sounding in the back of her head. She would just go check on him. He wasn’t far away now. She could walk him home. He could chide her for being silly… she was just a little overprotective. It was nothing.

 

The deep, gargling hiss echoed over the line even over Simon’s suddenly harsh breathing. It made Clary’s blood chill in her veins. “Simon? Simon, _run_.” Without stopping to check if her front door was locked, Clary followed her own advice.

 


	2. Fate hath Shat Upon Thou From a Magnificent Height

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short. Next bit is with Clary again.

**\-- CH 2 --**

 

Simon Lewis was not naturally very brave. At least, he had never thought of himself as brave. Once, when he and Clary were both eleven an older boy from  the neighborhood had tried bullying Simon at their bus stop. It started with calling him names and-- when Simon didn’t respond, quickly escalated to  pushing him roughly down to the sidewalk. He had laid there in the dirt by the fence, his brain sort of-- frozen. If it had been up to Simon he probably would have stayed there until the bully had gone away, like a lion tired of toying with unresponsive prey.  _ Clary  _ had been the one who pushed the boy back, who spat, with fire in her green eyes, that he was a coward and a bully and  _ who did he think he was _ ?? And  _ No one picked on  _ her  _ friends and got away with it.  _

 

What Simon took away from the encounter was bruised elbows and a vague sense of surprise that his skinny best friend  _ girl  _ could throw a punch like that. Clary got bruised knuckles and a detention for fighting. Her mom had been mad, but Simon knew that Clary didn’t care. She was like that. Brave, proactive. He was typically the one who needed saving. 

 

He sure needed it now. 

 

The man (or… thing?) moved with a half-shuffle half-walk that told Simon he was Seriously In Trouble. Like, no-name guy in the first ten minutes of a horror movie trouble. A  _ Fate hath Shat Upon Thou From a Magnificent Height _ type of trouble. His heart was pounding in his ears, galloping like it could escape from the situation all on its own. 

 

Suddenly the creature stopped and stiffened, it’s head cocked to one side in the shadows. Then, slowly, it let out that  _ creepy  _ hiss again. “Ahhhhhhh…. Your _ heaaarrrrttt _ …” 

 

It  _ talked _ . Something about the sound of the voice-- it came out like it was dragging, heavy, over gravel in the thing’s throat-- unlocked the rest of Simon’s brain: sensation flooded in from his numb body and he suddenly could feel the hard bite of the phone he was clutching so tightly that it was digging into the flesh of his palm. His knuckles were white with the strain. 

 

It took a moment for his brain to register why he was holding his phone like that: Clary’s voice was still coming out of it. Harsh panting-- was she running?-- and urgent directions. “Simon, can you hear me? Are you still there? Simon, I’m coming. Simon, you have to try and run. Get away from that thing.” 

 

Oh, right.. Running. That sounded like a good idea. Like a mechanical doll, his head came up, his body preparing automatically to run away from the thing at the head of the alley. He turned, and was suddenly staring straight into dead black eyes. 

 

“Ahhhhh… soooo  _ hungryyyy _ .” The thing hissed, baring fangs. 

 

So much for running.


	3. Eat Plastic, Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point you may have noticed, but I'm going to point out that this story is really aimed at 16+. I hereby abdicate responsibility for any Young Impressionable Minds that might be scarred by the reading of this story. Stay away, all YIMs.

**\--CH 3--**

 

Clary was too late. She was too late too late _too late_ … the mantra seemed to follow the frantic beating of her heart. She couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t even register the towering dark shapes of the mostly slumbering buildings that she sprinted past, or the ever-present noise and movement of New York City traffic.

 

She hadn’t had time to grab her Glamor-- the only spell or magical thing her mother had allowed in the house after they’d moved to New York. It was probably the only remotely useful thing she had for this situation, and for a blinding moment she longed to have it with her; she just hadn’t thought of it before. It was a spell designed to make the wearer less noticeable, though not outright invisible. Courtesy of a powerful warlock her mother knew, the Glamors were strong but not really battle-grade. Her mother often used hers to slip through crowds undetected. Clary’s Glamor was sitting, useless, in her junk drawer at home, where it usually was.

 

No one was looking for _her_ , after all.

 

Clary was distantly aware that she was still babbling into her phone, which still pressed to her ear as she ran, the screen stuck to her face with sweat. Simon had stopped responding a while ago, and it only made the mantra pick up. _Too late too late too late._ Her leg muscles were burning: this was more activity than they’d seen at one time in a while. She had to be getting close by now… Simon hadn’t been that far away. If only she could… where…. Where… _Ah_!

 

The two figures were lying on the floor of the alley… well, Simon was lying. Her best friend was flat on his back, his glasses knocked askew and his face pale, eyes closed-- _too late too late-_ \- the thing attacking him was hunched over his chest. Was it a vampire? Even her untrained eyes could see that it was a seriously disfigured one if that’s what it was.

 

As she drew closer Clary could see that it was _feeding,_ if you could call it that. The thing’s massive fangs-- much too big for a normal vampire, but too small for a demon, she thought-- were buried straight into Simon’s chest, blood welling around the creature’s thin lips and spilling sloppily to the ground. She could hear the Not-Vampire sucking and slurping messily at the blood. It couldn’t have been an effective way to get nourishment.

 

Clary hesitated only for a moment-- what advantage did she have in this situation other than surprise, after all? Near the side of the alleyway, by the ubiquitous overflowing New York dumpster, a broken umbrella was sticking out of a pile of trash. Clary grabbed it and, holding the handle end, stabbed downward with the twisted metal, crying out “ _Get OFF him!_ ”

 

Her legs burned with the effort of the run. Her arms burned with strain of her attack. Her lungs seemed to be seizing up in her chest. She could not let her body give in. Could not let Simon down. The umbrella crunched sickeningly as she thrust it with all her strength through the misshapen torso of the creature.

 

For a moment, everything was still. Clary was standing rigid, burning, holding her makeshift weapon. The Not-Vampire was frozen in a grotesque parody of shock and pain that might have been funny in another situation: Its head was thrown back at an unnatural angle, hands-- very human hands, with dirty, broken nails-- were raised beside the hunched shoulders, curled in the air, as if they were claws. The thing had ripped its fangs away from Simon when she had stabbed it, and Clary could see that blood was still oozing from the wound. His chest was rising and falling, though weakly. For a moment she almost couldn’t believe it.

 

Then Simon let out a gurgling moan, and time seemed to turn back on.

 

With a noise halfway between a scream and a yowl, the creature reared backward. The motion caught Clary completely off guard and It’s head, bald and as misshapen as the rest of it, smacked into her chin as it bucked under her, causing stars to burst in her vision and pain to explode in her mouth.

 

Vaguely aware that she must have bitten her tongue, Clary collided gracelessly with the ground (stars and lights spiraled through her field of vision for a second time) and rolled to one side, limply while the creature hissed and screamed somewhere to her left.  For the first time in her life, she found herself truly wishing that she had listened when her mother and Luke tried to tell her stories of fighting, reminiscing on how the pair of them had trained together in bygone days. If she had, maybe she would have an inkling of what to do now. Maybe she wouldn’t be about to die in a dirty alley beside her best friend.

 

 _“No. No, I_ won’t _let him die.”_ Gaining her feet, her head throbbing, Clary forced her eyes to focus on the creature. It was limping badly, hands clutching ineffectually at the umbrella sticking out of its chest. Inhuman hissing and snarling was spilling from its heavily fanged mouth, along with a disgusting waterfall of red-tinged slobber.

 

Clary prayed she had hurt it badly enough with her first attack, unable to remember her long distant lessons on how to kill a vampire-- if that was even what the thing was-- around her pounding head. She doubted umbrellas was high on the list, but she was pretty sure that sunlight worked… that was hours away yet. What else? _What else_?

 

Simon lay on the ground between them, moaning weakly. The creature turned and for a second she had the wild fear that it might launch itself towards the unconscious man again, to finish what it had started.

 

In desperation, she cast her eyes to the ground. Empty take out boxes and styrofoam cups littered the street. Bits of paper, ends of cigarettes, the occasional empty wallet or cardboard box, nothing she could _use_ … Ah hah! There, just inside the propped-open lid of the dumpster was a old paint bucket. Dirty and stained, it was stuffed in between trash bags and some unidentifiable old cloth. More than a little bit desperate she grabbed the bucket and hauled on it with all her strength. The thing stuck for a moment, as if in something sticky, and then came out all at once causing her to stumble again, the world tilting as her head reminded her that it was still throbbing. She tried to keep the word _concussion_ out of her mind. “ _Focus, Clarissa.”_

 

The thing _was_ advancing on Simon again. Determined to finish the job? Desperate for sustenance? Suddenly a white-hot rage sprouted in Clary’s chest, bubbling over any fear she felt and catching her off guard with its intensity. Why wouldn’t this horrible thing just _go away_ ? How dare this monster hurt her friend. It was trying to _kill_ Simon!

 

The Not-Vampire had half-dragged itself almost all the way to Simon now, and it flinched backward almost comically as Clary advanced on it suddenly: she had forgotten her myriad hurts suddenly, full of righteous fire she charged with a- wordless warcry, swinging her paint bucket at the creature. It connected with the head with a _crack_ but the creature didn’t fall back. Instead, it bared it teeth at Clary, the empty black eyes fixing on her with the first obvious emotion she’d seen on the thing’s face so far; Hate.

 

“Yooooouuu will diiiiieeee” It choked out the words around its too-full mouth, another ropey vine of rust-colored spittle dripping from its huge fangs. “And I willlll feeeeeeeeeedd twiiiiiceeeeee.”

 

“You can eat _plastic_ , asshole.” Clary swung the bucket again, but this time one of the dirty hands shot up and caught it: the resounding thunk traveled up the creatures arm, but it didn’t seem to feel the force. She had one bad moment when the hand clenched on the bucket-- the plastic crackled under the force of the fingers-- and she felt the creature pull her towards it and overbalance her. She released the handle, but it was too late.

 

Fear gripped her heart with icy pressure. If she fell it would be on her before she could get back up.

 

She wouldn’t survive it.

 

The blade was as sudden and unexpected as it was ethereal and deadly. Glowing with holy energy, it swung down in a perfect, smooth circle, slicing through the creature’s neck in one clean ark.

 

She stared numbly at the rolling head. The blade was gone now, replaced by a pair of black boots and… a hand?


	4. Focus, Clary. Get Help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. I happen to like Heterochromia!Jace, so that's what I went with here. Also, I brought in the accents from the movie (though less prominent) for... reasons. 
> 
> Say it with me, people... Alternate Universe... Alternate Universe...

**\--CH 4--**

 

Clary stared up at the man in the black leather armor. She recognized the gear, though she had never seen it up close before. Now that she saw the gear, the black ink that was carved into the stranger’s skin like brands along his muscled arms, peeking out from beside his collarbone, she knew that trouble hadn’t exactly left her. _Out of the frying pan, into the fire_ . All of the sudden it was like her mother was standing beside her; all of Jocelyn’s usual warnings echoed in her ears. _Look away, don’t engage, don’t let them know you can_ see _them. You are safe if you are normal._ Automatically, she shut her eyes.

Simon gargled in alarm. Immediately Clary opened her eyes again and looked down, tearing her rapidly dwindling focus from the problem of their savior and catching Simon’s bleary gaze with her own. Simon. He was dying. He needed help. They needed help-- vaguely, she was still pretty sure that her head was pounding. Strange, that she didn’t seem to feel it anymore the way she had before. _Focus, Clary. Get Help._

 

There was only one way to get help.

 

Damn the rules.

 

“You have to help him.” Her voice was garbled, her throat burned when she spoke, but the blonde man seemed to understand, at least, he looked down at Simon for the first time when she spoke. “That thing bit him. He’s a mundane, he was attacked. He's an innocent, and now he's going to bleed out, and it could have poisoned him. _Please_. You _have_ to help him.”

 

Jocelyn would have told her that nothing was worth this, the risk of exposure… but Jocelyn wasn’t here, Clary was. Though strange colors seemed to be shimmering in her vision, she knew that she had to do this one thing, no matter the cost. She had to save Simon.  

 

The stranger knelt down to her level, and she was shocked to see that his eyes, framed by thick lashes, were bicolored, like a cat. They were lovely eyes. Clary was seized by a sudden, totally out of place desire for her colored pencils or watercolors.  Vaguely, some part of her brain wanted to touch him… most likely the concussed part.

 

The lovely eyes blinked at her, then narrowed. “You _can_ see me.” It was a lovely voice too, masculine and alive, full of dancing. She wondered briefly how one would draw an accent:  He had just a touch of an accent to his words, just the way Jocelyn did, though her accent only really came out when she was angry. _Well_ , Clary reminded herself, reasonably, _Alicante is in_ Europe _, after all_.  He was staring at her. Had she said all that out loud? She hadn’t meant to. 

 

She blinked at him. “Yeah,” She said slowly, “Both of you. Are you going to help Simon or not? You have really nice eyes.” Then she threw up. Judging from the swearing, it was probably on Nice Eye’s shoes.

 

She didn’t have the chance to apologize before she passed out.  

  



	5. She doesn’t have any runes

**\-- CH 5 --**

 

The darkness was cold and endless. Her brain seemed to be swallowed up in it, like sticky sap.

 

"What the hell _was_ that thing?" The voice was male. It rang in the darkness, loud and disembodied. "You didn't tell us that you--" For a moment Clary started, it sounded too close, almost right beside her. Her head throbbed, her body ached. She twisted, trying to escape the noise. 

 

"I've got you." Another male voice, much softer, seemed to whisper in her ear. Then the dark pushed back in and she faded again.

 

\--

 

“You’re _sure_ she could see you?” This time it was a woman's voice, lilting and lovely, that came out of the darkness and floated by. Clary let it go, not bothering to try and hold on to the words. How long had it been? She wanted to go back to sleep. 

 

“When am I _not_ sure, Iz?”

 

“She doesn’t have any runes. And the wards let her in so she doesn’t have demon blood.” Two male voices had joint the first: one dryly disinterested, the other vaguely familiar. They danced over her, brushing over her face. Clary didn’t worry about it. It was a dream, after all.

 

“Will she wake up?” The woman again.

 

“Probably. Brother Jeremiah said…”

 

Clary signed. The darkness was rising up to swallow her more deeply. Had the voices stopped? She wasn’t sure, but she wished they'd go away and let her rest. Clary let herself fall back into the silence.

 

-


	6. Bucket-Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Need to clean up a bit... struggled with this one more than I thought I would.

**\-- CH 6 --**

 

When Clary came back again there were no voices, only the sound of someone breathing nearby, deep and steady. It was still dark, but the darkness was different now, more normal and tinged with the purple hue of her eyelids. When she opened her eyes she wasn’t surprised to see that she was in a darkened room.

 

Looking around, Clary was struck with an impression that she had woken up in the Hogwarts infirmary: the room was high-ceilinged, long and wide, paneled in wood that managed to gleam even in the low light. It was lined on both sides with old-fashioned metal cots done up with pristine white sheets, folded and tucked with military precision. The beds were all empty, except the one she lay in, and cot a few spaces down where she could just make out Simon’s dark head behind a white fabric screen. Moonlight shone down on the scene from one high window.

 

It was nighttime. They were alone.

 

This might be her only chance.

 

Clary would have liked to have gotten up urgently, in charge and driven like people did after they were wounded in action movies. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in a movie. She surged up from her bed, only to be reminded forcibly that she’d recently hosted several harsh meetings between her skull and the unforgiving floor of an alley. The pain splintered through her skull and skittered down her nerves, making everything else narrow to a single point for a moment as the sensation disoriented her. Even falling back onto the pillows made agony pulse through her temples.

 

She stuffed one fist into her mouth and managed to not make any noise. It took all her effort to hold back the scream that wanted to escape. 

 

The next time she moved, she did it much more gingerly. It was difficult to get her breath until she saw that Simon still slept, and the room was still quiet. Creeping, careful, Clary got out of bed gingerly and dragged one of her pillows under the sheets. It wouldn’t fool a trained Shadowhunter, not for long anyway, but it was better than nothing. She would take any advantage she could get. 

 

Which meant she couldn’t take Simon with her.

 

The idea of leaving him tore at her. He was breathing much more easily than he’d been in the alleyway, white bandages were visible under the slightly-open front of the shirt he wore-- a loose fitting v-neck she didn’t recognize-- even still, she knew he was in no condition to be moved.

 

Simon was a mundane, she reminded herself. She wasn’t abandoning him, not really... They couldn’t hurt him. They couldn’t even tell him what they were without breaking the Clave’s own rules. He was safe... probably safer here than anywhere else in the city, really. 

 

Still, she couldn’t bring herself to look back at him when she slipped out of the room.

 

-

 

The hallway was dark and silent. Here there were no windows, only a few sconces were set into the walls every ten feet or so emitting the un-changing, slightly unnatural glow of runestones. Clary crept along the carpet, grateful for her socked feet (her shoes hadn’t been on when she woke up and she hadn’t taken the time to find them) and wishing once again that she had ever been in an Institute before.

 

That had to be what this was. Clary had never been inside the New York Institute, but she had seen it from the outside; the tall, magnificently appointed old church was hard to miss, even when you were trying to pretend that you couldn’t see it.

 

She knew from these occasional glimpses that there was huge central doors on the front of the building as well as several smaller doors around the outside, leading to various sanctuary gardens and pathways, true to the church the space had once been. Around her now, however, were closed wooden doors and endless stone walls, no indication of where in the building she might be in relation to any of these exits.

 

She pressed on, searching for a window or door where she might get some glimpse of an escape.

 

“Back among the living, are we?” The voice came from behind her. Startled, Clary jerked around to find the source and once again grabbed her head. _OK, note to self, I have_ got _to stop doing that._ She couldn’t be sure, but the ache seemed a _little_ less this time.

 

“More or less” she gritted out the words, pressing one hand to her aching forehead.

 

“I wouldn’t move too quickly if I were you.” This time a little more gently, she turned to find the speaker. His hair glinted blonde in the witchlight. His eyes and much of the top of his face were hidden now as he was standing half in the shadow of a doorway, the wooden door slightly open behind him. No light escaped through the crack.

 

The man stepped away from the door and she realized that this was the same shadowhunter that had finally killed the Not-a-Vampire creature in the alley. Mr. Nice Eyes himself. She tried for a smile, though it was probably closer to a grimace. “I guess I owe you a thank you, don’t I? You’re the guy from the alley.”

 

He still wore most of his gear despite the lateness of the hour, though he had shucked off the outer leather jacket and belt at some point. His simple black shirt exposed the fading runes on his arms to her gaze, but she couldn’t remember for the life of her what they represented. Almost unwillingly, she looked down. His feet were pale and bare against the dark carpet.

 

“Oh, and… Sorry about your boots.”

 

The shadowhunter tilted his head, “Usually people sound a little more… _grateful_ when I save them from certain death.”  

 

There was the famous Shadowhunter arrogance. This was her lucky day. Clary rolled her eyes; even that hurt. “I’ll try to remember that next time.” she did feel bad about throwing up on his shoes, but when he scoffed at her she felt a little better about it.

 

“You plan to be in peril again soon?” He tilted his head to the side, eyes still fixed on her face. “Now that I think about it, after that performance with the bucket, I’m not so sure you’ll need my saving. Get you a real weapon and you’d be hell on wheels out there.”

 

“Ah… you saw that?”

 

“I did.” His eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief. It was a good look for him.  “‘Umbrella and Bucket’ is sort of an... unconventional method. but hey, if it worked, it worked.” He raised one hand and mimed stabbing downward. “Pretty good form, too, but I think it would be a little more effective if you’d try it with a seraph blade next time.”

 

She tried to hide her flinch, knew it was hopeless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Ohhhh…” he leaned forward now, the smirk gone but his eyes still twinkling, predatory. “No use in trying to play the Mundie card now, little girl. I know you have the Sight. You’re not a downworlder, but you have no Runes… so which is it? Are you an angel or a demon?”

 

Clary felt ire snapping in her gut as Nice Eyes condescended to her. He might be pretty, he might have saved her life (Hey, she was grateful!) but that didn't give him the right to pry into her personal life. The fact that she had been almost killed by a vampire-type-thing didn’t make her less deserving of being treated like an adult. Underneath her irritation, a pulse of fear had started, whispering in what sounded a lot like her mother's voice:  _Keep the secret, keep the secret._

 

“My name is _Clary_ , not ‘little girl’, first of all.”  Nice Eye’s eyebrows shot up. “Secondly, it’s not any of your business _what I am_. I appreciate your help, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong. You don’t have any authority or reason to question me.”

 

It gratified her to see surprise play across his face, even if it was only a moment before he tucked it back behind that smirking mask. It wasn’t often-- ever, actually-- that she got to tell anyone what she was. She never got the chance to talk to _anyone_ who knew about the Shadoworld that wasn’t her mom or Luke: It was a strange mash of liberating and terrifying.

 

Then he leaned back and shrugged. “Well, that’s fine. Hodge’ll know what to do with you, bucket-girl.” 

 

“Huh?”

 

“Hodge. He wanted to see you as soon as you were feeling better.” Face unreadable, he took a step away from the door and waved a hand down the dark hallway. “Looks like you're feeling better.”


	7. Nice Eyes and Bucket Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May go back and edit this later, but for now... enjoy!

**\--CH 7--**

 

Standing before the library’s huge double doors, Jace closed his eyes and let his sense expand for a moment. Immediately, Alec’s presence rose into the forefront of his awareness; their parabatai bond was more than a decade old and by now as familiar to Jace as the tenor of his own thoughts.

 

His brother wasn’t far away and was tired, but not sleeping. Content, Jace let the awareness fade into the background and focused on the area immediately around him: The details came in sluggishly; the musty smell of the books, a faint scent of… pomegranate? It mingled with the faint smell of cat, Church must be around somewhere nearby, and the deliberately subtle smell of his own body wash.

Testing a theory, he turned slightly towards his “guest” and subtly inhaled. Bucket girl was indeed the source of the faintly tart, fruity scent, along with the unmistakable smell of… sharpies? And charcoal. He performed a quick visual assessment and found several fading smudges on her hands and the side of her neck. Had she been grilling? As he’d rescued her at nearly midnight, that didn’t seem likely. Though, in New York you never knew what someone might be up to.

 

She was staring at him, one red brow raised expectantly. He pushed the doors open silently, feeling wrongfooted though he wasn’t sure why.

 

She gasped when she saw the room beyond, and Jace smirked. Somehwere in the depths of the library he heard the steady swish of pages turning pause, then resume more slowly. Hodge was already here.  

 

He couldn't detect anything outside of the library. The awareness rune tingling on his bicep was slowly losing its spark. It was hardly a surprise: Alec must have drawn the Mark more than six hours ago now, before they had gone out looking for the vampire that had been terrorizing mundanes in a low rent suburb of the city. Another standard night in the life of a Marked Shadowhunter. Boring.

 

He hadn’t been expecting to find the vampire badly mutated—almost unrecognizable in appearance and behavior. He _certainly_ hadn’t expected to find a red-headed mundie coed with a broken umbrella doing his job for him.

 

Except, she wasn’t a mundane. She had the Sight.

 

Jace had to admit, the evening had turned out to be considerably less boring than he had expected.

 

Bucket Girl walked behind him quietly, but was far from silent. In fact, she was gaping around the room like a fish on land, her green eyes were glued to the shelves. The fierceness that had shine so brightly before was gone from her now, so completely that he could almost believe he’d imagined it… Unlike the Shadowhunters he’d grown up around, Bucket Girl didn’t look like a warrior; even as he watched she tripped over the wide-splayed leg of one of the study desks.

 

He didn’t steady her. His hand clenched convulsively in his pocket but he kept it to himself. She caught herself on the edge of the desk before she could hit the floor, only glancing at him momentarily to see if he noticed her trip.

 

Jace stared resolutely ahead.

 

\--

 

How _long_ must it have taken to accumulate _so many_ books? They were surrounded by leather spines, piling on desks and lined up on shelves that soared from the floor to the arched ceiling. The bustling city of New York seemed a million miles away here, in hush of the high-ceilinged library. The room had an arcane feel, the wooden shelves bore myriad indecipherable carvings and gleamed in the moonlight let in by high, thin stained-glass windows—there was no sign of the yellow glow of ever-present New York streetlights. The expansive rugs were thick and comfortably worn. Where it was exposed the hardwood flooring was shiny and marked with age.

 

Nice Eyes walked ahead of her like a robot, hardly making a sound in his leathers. In a place like this, Clary thought she could even ignore the silent presence of her blonde guide.

 

Well, almost.

 

She _should_ be worried, should be planning how to escape, what she was going to say. Her mother would be having a coronary if she could see the place her daughter now found herself. Silently, Clary sent a prayer of thanks to the Angel that her mother had been by to visit only a week ago… Jocelyn would be unlikely to check in on her daughter for a few more days at least.

 

Clary knew that her mom had only told her about the Shadowworld at all because she’d had no choice: her daughter had the Sight, and though she knew she’d tried to find ways to keep her from Seeing, (various potions, lies, warlock spells, and even a rune once… though of course it’d had no effect) there was nothing Jocelyn could do to change the fact of what Clary was.

 

Though she was powerless to activate the Angel’s divine gifts, her daughter was still Shadowborn, and thus she was inextricably tangled with the arcane world.

 

Clary could never be a Shadowhunter, but nor could she live as a true mundane.

 

They came into view of a huge, elaborately carved desk. Behind it sat an attractive but badly dressed older man, about her mother’s age. Still more books piled around him like fortress walls. A huge old tome with pages as thin as gossamer wings was open before the man, and a cat was curled on the shelf over his left shoulder, tail swishing idly.

 

“Hodge.” Nice Eyes nodded to Clary when the man looked up, blinking through round reading glasses. The effect reminded her of Mr. Owl, from the commercials, and Clary had the sudden urge to draw him.

 

“Oh, yes! Our visitor!”

 

\--


	8. Simon and the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Library next! (but first Simon... I kind of heart Simon.) :D

**\--CH 8--**

 

It was dark. There was nothing. 

 

Abruptly, the pain started. Searing through him with blinding intensity at first, then cooling to a continuous, dull ache. 

 

Slowly, eventually, the world around Simon Lewis resolved itself into one with actual colors. He wasn’t aware of waking up, but he must have. The haze of dreams had slipped away to reveal a brighter, more solid world of scent and sound. 

 

No sharp edges, though. Simon didn’t know how long he’d been staring dazedly at the wall before he realized that everything around him was… blurry? That was odd. Maybe the pressure--what felt like an _elephant_ \-- sitting on his chest had something to do with that. 

 

It was awfully painful. Was he in the hospital? He felt like he ought to be. No beeping, though. There was always beeping in the movies. 

 

In the back of his mind, Simon realized that something didn’t add up. The world didn’t add up. Something had happened that he should be thinking about. His head was throbbing along with his ribs, however, so he filed the thinking away for later. Preferably after some serious medication. Did this non-hospital have Vicodin? Vicodin would be nice.

 

First, he seriously needed to deal with this elephant situation. Then maybe seeing would be better. Then drugs.  

 

Experimentally, Simon waved a hand over his chest, accidentally hitting himself in the face rather than finding the expected pachyderm. He grunted in surprise. 

 

_ Well, at least my glasses didn’t break… _

 

_ Oh.  _

 

“Looking for these?” The voice was something out of Simon’s most unrealistic fantasies. Female and low full of natural sensuality. She sounded like the kind of person who wore lipstick because  _ she  _ liked it. Simon wished he could actually see her. The blurry shape at the end of his bed probably didn’t do her justice. 

 

Squinting at the dark blurry figure, Simon chuckled weakly. “Ummm… If by ‘these’ you mean my glasses, no actually. I’ll take them, though.” The was probably not the best time to explain that he had actually been looking for renegade chest-sitting elephants. 

 

The figure moved closer and Simon could pick out a few more details: the dark red smear on the comparatively paler oval blur of her face told him he was probably right about the lipstick. “Are you a nurse?” Now, that  _ would  _ be a fantasy. 

 

The woman chuckled, “Not even close, Mundane.” 


	9. That Does Sound Like a Vampire...

- **-CH 9--**

 

Hodge had a cat. The sleek animal watched Clary with gleaming eyes and a continually twitching tail while its master paced back and forth and said “ _Hmmm_ ”.

 

Apparently, Mr. Nice Eyes was named _Jace_. It was a stupidly blonde and attractive name that matched his stupidly blonde and attractive face. Clary’s eyes kept straying back to that face, the defined cut of his broad shoulders under his black shirt, the well-muscled arms, with their twining arcane tattoos...   _It really is too bad about his personality_ , she told herself, being deliberately snide. _Be strong, Clary. You know how these types can be._  

 

Hodge held his hands clasped behind his back and stared intently at the edge of the carpet as he listened to Jace report. The younger man stood like a soldier; his back was stiff, shoulder back and hands behind his back, eyes straight ahead. He reminded her of a police officer or soldier reporting to a superior officer. The only thing missing was the salute.

 

Clary held the steaming cup of… was it tea? Some kind of spicy tea. The fragrant steam swirled around her face in gauzy patterns while the Shadowhunter and the teacher talked. The simple black mug Hodge had offered her was something that might have come out of any middle-level hotel, totally at odds with the arcane setting, but she was surprised how grateful she was to have something to warm her hands.

 

“Hmmm… That does sound like a vampire.”

 

“It _was_ a vampire, Hodge. Mostly, anyway.”

 

“Hmm.” Suddenly Clary noticed that both men were staring at her. “What?”

 

They exchanged a look, then Hodge nodded. Jace took the seat beside Clary, Hodge settled back behind his desk, one hand coming up to pet the cat absently.

 

“I believe it is your turn, my dear. How did you come to be in with us this evening?” His voice was kind, but Hodge’s eyes were fixed on her face with unwavering focus. Clary consciously straightened her shoulders.

 

“I was on the phone with my friend-- “

 

“The mundane man in the infirmary” Jace qualified automatically. Clary shot him a look and continued. “-- Yeah, him. I heard him get attacked. I don’t live far away; I ran to help him. I’ve... never seen anything like that creature before.” Technically true, but only technically: she'd be willing to be neither one of the Shadowhunters had ever seen a creature like that before, either. It was unnatural, even in the Shadow World. She wondered how long it would take her hosts to see through the flimsy smokescreen.

 

“But you _did_ see that creature. And you can see us.”

 

“I can.” What was the point in lying now? “I’m not a Shadowhunter, or a Downworlder, before you ask.”

 

Hodge’s eyebrow rose steadily, his gaze was knowing. Clary met his eyes and stared back, willing herself not to blink. She would not blush. She would not be ashamed. 

 

Slowly, Hodge nodded. “Being Shadowborn is nothing to be embarrassed of, my dear.”

 

“I’m not embarrassed.” It was true, she wasn't embarrassed about her status, despite what some in the Shadow World thought about her "kind", but it felt like a somehow inadequate response. Like she should have some witty, confidant comeback to defend the accident of her birth that had left her different from all but the smallest percentage of her race.

 

Jace was watching her with sudden and newfound interest. Clary realized belatedly that he had probably never met someone like her before. It made her feel suddenly a little more secure. They had that one thing in common; both were faced with something they had never seen before. He had never met someone from the fringe of the Shadow World, and she had never met someone properly in it. 

 

Despite herself, she was curious about him.

 

But it was not to be. At that moment a voice broke in, urgent and familiar: “Clary! It’s your mom!”


	10. The Gas Leak (That was Most Certainly Not a Gas Leak)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, rule number one of Clary Fairchild-- Do NOT tell her that she can't do something to help her mom. She has a serious thing about her mom. 
> 
> Also, I made up the Clave familial rights thing, but I think it makes sense. These Shadowhunters are literally risking their lives just because of their birth. The family is the most important thing. I think they should have the right to avenge each other.

**\--CH 10--**

 

Police lights spiraled in the semi-darkness of early morning. The harsh lights cast the two figures sitting on the front stoop of the apartment building alternatingly in shadow and then awash with red and blue light. At their feet, shards of glass glittered and reflected the wild lights as if they were faerie-work. Above them, the blackened, twisted edges of the windows looked down on the scene like the burned out eyes of some great beast. The open double doors behind the hunched pair gaped like a misshapen maw, expelling and swallowing steady streams of people in white bodysuits and blue police jackets. 

 

Leaning on the railing, the woman looked like a little girl. Short and small as she was, hunched in her friend’s jacket with her red hair cartoonish in the light. The man’s dark curls tangled in her bangs as they leaned on each other. 

 

Isabelle’s heart ached for them. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a parent, much less the only one you had. Her own mother wasn’t much of a nurturer, but still… to come home to a burned-up shell, mother missing… it would be hard. 

 

“How much have they figured out?” Alec’s voice was tense, serious. He stood behind Isabelle, his body half-turned towards his battle brother. The blonde was pulling the sleeve of his black shirt down over a fresh mark, deliberately not looking at the sad figures on the steps. 

 

“They’re doing pretty well for Mundies. They’re going with ‘gas leak’.” 

 

Alec arched an eyebrow, “Jocelyn Fairchild was attacked by feral werewolves and her whole apartment was burned with demonic fire in a poor attempt to cover the claw marks. How is that  _ anything  _ like a gas leak?” 

 

“Well, they’ve noticed that there was a fire... more or less.” Jace shrugged. “I said they were doing well  _ for mundanes _ , didn’t I?” 

 

Alec laughed humorlessly. Unlike Jace, his eyes were fixed on the red-haired girl slumped on the railing. “At least we won’t have to worry about the police getting in the way.”

 

“Oh no, I suspect they’ll be well out of the way, so long as we’re making actual progress.” 

 

“Alright,” Alec turned, surveying the burned-out house and then heading back towards the roped-off street. “We need to make contact with the local Weres. See if they know anything about a feral pack moving in recently. The High Warlock may have some idea if anyone has opened an unauthorized portal in his territory.” 

 

Jace nodded, falling into step beside his battle brother. “I can check with Lucian Greymark. He i

 

Isabelle tossed her dark braid over her shoulder with an expert flick of her head, her gaze stony as she watched her siblings retreat. “O _ kay _ , but what are we going to do about  _ Clary _ ?” 

 

Alec and Jace turned to stare at her as one. “What?” “What about her?” 

 

Isabelle’s tone was that of a long-suffering parent to an especially slow child. “She’s a Shadowhunter, isn’t she? She has the Sight. She has the right to know what is being done to find Jocelyn. Besides, her mother was just  _ abducted _ for unknown reasons; Clary could be next.” 

 

Alec nodded, considering, but Jace’s gaze was flat. “No. She’s safer if she’s kept out of it.” 

 

“All Shadowhunters have a right to protect thei--” 

 

“No, Izzy.” Jace cut off her speech about familial rights and responsibilities, his tone harsh. “She’s out. We don’t need her for this.” 

 

Alec pursed his lips. “I don’t know about that, Jace. It  _ would  _ be helpful to have another Shadowhunter as backup… not to mention, Izzy isn’t wrong about the protection aspect.” 

 

Jace shook his head, eyes flashing “You don’t--” 

 

“Whose protection?” 

 

The voice cut through the tension. All three siblings turned in a jerk of movement, Alec’s hand automatically came to cover the invisibility rune on his shoulder as if checking that the sting of viability was still pulsing through the arcane symbol. Clary was staring at them, her green eyes alive with curiosity, though the shadow of grief darkened her features. “Are you talking about me?” 

 

“No,” Jace said curtly at the same instant as Isabelle said, “Yes, and your mom.” 

 

Clary’s eyes narrowed, focusing in on Jace’s shuttered expression. “You know something about my mom? About who took her? The police don’t know  _ any _ thing.” 

 

Jace shook his head, “We’re handling it--” 

 

“Without me?” 

 

“You’re at risk, it’d be irresponsible to--” 

 

“I’m an adult member of the Clave.” Her voice snapped like a whip over his words, anger clearing the curiosity and the sadness from her expression. “I have the right to defend and protect my family from Downworld and arcane influences. By what authority are you attempting to strip me of that right?” 

 

“It isn’t safe for yo--” 

 

“ _ That _ isn’t within  _ your  _ rights to determine.” Jace was starting to look furious himself, as he was interrupted for the third time in less than a minute. The two were standing almost toe-to-toe, Clary glaring up at the much taller black-clad Shadowhunter with just as much fierceness. Alec hovering behind with a pinched, distressed expression and Isabelle watching with avid interest. 

 

“I am  _ trying  _ to help you.” Jace finally grit out between clenched teeth. Clary turned to Alec with a triumphant expression. “I accept your offer of assistance.” 

 

“Wha-- That is  _ not  _ what I--” 

 

“I’ll go back to your Institute with you tonight, just give me a moment to grab a few of my mother’s things. We might still be able to track her.” Ignoring the thundercloud that was Jace’s oppressive anger at her back, Clary turned on her heel and marched back to Simon who was squinting into the darkness after her with a confused expression. 

 

The three siblings’ hearing, amplified by runic magic, was sufficient to hear the Mundane man’s rapid-fire questions: “Were you talking to someone? I couldn't see anybody-- I need to get these stupid glasses updated… do you have any news about your mom? Is she OK?” 

 

Jace turned and marched away from the slowly calming scene of destruction, his shoulders stiffening as Clary’s voice drifted back to them, “I don’t know anything yet but I have a plan, Simon. I’m going to find her.” 

 

Isabelle smirked at Alec, who frowned disapprovingly. 

  
“Things are about to get  _ interesting  _ around here.” 


End file.
